


Long Time Coming

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, UNTIL THEY DON'T, UST to RST, but circumstances interrupt, in which felicity and oliver really really want to get it on, sitcom-y nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: <i>Felicity’s pretty proud of them both, that they follow up their frantic, almost-had-(probably-amazing)-sex-in-the-lair lapse in control with an actual, grown up, adult conversation in which they agree to keep their hands to themselves until they go on a couple of real, official dates. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. They agree that kissing is okay. And some, you know, associated behaviors. Because kissing involves touching and hugging and maybe occasionally some delightful friction. So that kind of… grinding is also acceptable. But they’re not going to have sex before their first date. Probably.</i> Or how Oliver and Felicity turned all that blistering UST to RST. Finally. <b>Spoilers through S3, including “The Climb.”</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time Coming

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to jomarchfwf, youguysimserious, katelinnea, and carogables for beta work on some/all of this nonsense even as it ballooned wildly out of control. ;)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: DC and Warner Bros own them, and would probably be appalled by this. ;)

Oliver has been back from the dead for two and a half weeks. 

The overwhelming swirl of emotions Felicity felt the first couple of hours after his return -- relief, love, anger, even grief -- has settled. Sort of. 

For the most part. 

Well, okay, she still pinches herself sometimes, still wakes up each morning and has to remind herself that he’s _alive_. But that’s a _huge_ improvement from waking up every day for over a month having to remember that he was dead.

That was... _awful_.

This is so, so, _so_ much better. And she’s mostly come to terms with reality. Life has, improbably, mostly settled back down to normal levels of chaos and angst. Even Felicity’s slight disbelief over Oliver’s heartfelt request for a second chance has faded into acceptance.

Well, okay, that part isn’t actually true. 

He’s asked her to take another chance on him, sure, but she certainly hasn’t been able to make herself believe or understand or accept that. If she’d been skeptical in the lead-up to their first, disastrous date, she is fully in denial now.

Because Oliver confessed his feelings for her probably a half-dozen times after breaking up with her. So many confessions and reiterations and complicated-but-sincere declarations, all of which led to... _nothing changing_. Because he’d also endlessly explained why they could never pursue anything romantic. 

And then he’d died -- _died_. 

Which had been the most impressive example of someone she loved -- and who supposedly loved her -- leaving her so far. The mark that left will take a long time to heal.

She understands his reasons, she understands why he’d done what he’d done, even if she disagrees. But understanding something intellectually is completely different from _feeling_ the truth of it. And she’d _felt_ that last, soft, confident “I love you” so deeply, she’d _believed_ in him and in the strength of his feelings for her. For once in her life, she was certain -- _certain_ \-- that she was loved, and _would be_ loved. Forever.

And then he’d died, and she wasn’t sure she could recover from the loss. She’d spent weeks just moving dully forward, existing on autopilot and leftovers and the gasping sobs she only allowed herself in the privacy of her own apartment.

But he’d lived. Or come back to life. Or maybe he hadn’t actually died -- Oliver himself isn’t fully clear on that part.

And in the haze of euphoria, as she’d sobbed against his chest on the floor of her office, he’d told her all the things she’d been waiting to hear from him for months. (Years, if she were to be honest.)

So all of that? Getting literally everything you’ve wished for all at once? Okay, so she still can’t read minds or lift Thor’s hammer, but everything _else_ she’s ever wished for? It happened all at once. Oliver is alive and he loves her and he wants her. 

It’s a little hard to take in.

So she’s... backed off. 

Well, first she’d kissed the hell out of him, both of them crying, both of them sitting on the cool marble tangled up in each other. And that was _some_ kiss -- all feeling and longing and pent up desire, and she’d barely been able to restrain her instincts to tear his clothes off and make him _prove_ he was alive. Make him prove _she_ was alive.

But she is strong. And maybe she’s still a little angry at him for leaving her. So she’d straightened her back and pulled away, breathing hard and studying his familiar face, drinking him in. 

And she’d told him she needed time to process.

Because clearly she’s an idiot -- she could process _after_ the mind-blowing sex probably just as well as before, but that doesn’t occur to her until the next day. After hours of little touches to reassure each other that they’re both okay, together, safe. Touches that leave her almost trembling with her need to throw him on the nearest horizontal surface and have her way with him.

And that’s just the touches. The _looks_ he gives her -- Felicity would swear they could melt glass. 

It only takes three days for her to break.

& & &

Felicity descends into the lair, her heart beating a little too fast until she lays eyes on him, confirms (again) that he’s alive. He came back. He’s _here_. 

Oliver glances up from the mat, where he’s doing one-armed pushups -- really? _really_? she’s supposed to _not_ jump him here in the lair when he’s doing _one-armed pushups_ in front of her? -- and he shoots her a distracted grin.

“Hey,” she says, dropping her bag onto the floor beside her chair. She doesn’t let herself focus on the breathy way he answers, doesn’t let herself stare at him. Though, sure, her gaze might _flick briefly_ to him when she has a spare moment; like the entire time her system is booting up.

She knows he can feel it, because every couple of glances, he catches her looking. And he smirks.

In a truly regrettable moment, Felicity actually harrumphs, then blushes and turns back to her computers. “Oy,” she mutters, hopefully too low for him to hear as she works on refining a search, one hand tapping a pencil absently against the metal desk.

And then suddenly he’s beside her, looming over her shoulder. When she inhales, she gets a lungful of his scent -- something woodsy underneath the sharp heat of sweat. She has the strongest urge to lick the sweat from his chest.

“Hey,” Oliver says, his hand skimming along her upper arm.

And -- yup! That’s it! 

She can’t take it, can’t handle the tension simmering underneath her skin. She can’t _not_ touch him anymore, not for another second. When she jerks upright, he’s so close that he starts to take a step back. To give her room. Which she emphatically does _not_ want. 

He’s shirtless, of course -- always, _always_ shirtless, like the finest torture -- so she hooks her fingers in the waistband of his cargo pants, and gets the _most_ gratifying strangled gasp from him in response. And then his hands are on her shoulder blades, urging her closer, and they are kissing, her hands sliding along the sweat-dampened skin of his waist, around to the burnt, scarred, rough skin of his lower back.

Oliver is groaning into her mouth, and her fingers dig into his flesh, wanting him impossibly closer. His body is hot and alive beneath her palms, his muscles undulating as he leans into her.

She loses the thread, lost to the feeling of him crushed against her, his ridiculously broad chest urging her backwards. Her thighs hit her workstation, and she has just enough clarity of mind to pull back and mumble, “Wait. Monitors. Over there.”

He’s moving them, and her hands are skimming along the skin of his back, and with each desperate inhale, she can smell him -- masculine and musky and so familiar it makes her chest ache. 

She’s half-sitting on a cool metal table, her hip bumping up against his grindstone, his hands in her hair, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. She’s had a million fantasies that go just like this -- his hard body pressed right up against--

“Oh, come on,” Diggle says.

And they break apart, Felicity all but gasping for breath, while Oliver leans closer and presses his face into her neck. Leaving _her_ to face their smirking friend over Oliver’s large, muscular shoulder.

“Um,” Felicity says, her voice scratchy and low and Oliver groans softly against her skin and this is so embarrassing. She can feel her cheeks flush bright pink with lust and mortification. “Dig,” she says. “Hi. Sorry. We were... um...” 

What can she possibly say here? Oliver hasn’t moved, his hands hot and heavy on her back, his erection pressed insistently against her while she’s trying to talk to their friend. It takes every last shred of her willpower not to squirm. Still, when she uncrosses her ankles and lets her legs fall, her thighs tighten around his and Oliver, that _jerk_ , responds by leaning a bit more heavily against her and pressing a wet kiss against her collarbone.

“Really don’t need details,” Diggle says, and he’s actually _enjoying_ this, she realizes. “Saw more than I ever needed to, actually.” He crosses his arms. “Still am.”

Finally -- _finally_ \-- Oliver joins the conversation. He lifts his head from her neck and twists his torso a little to pin Diggle with his gaze. “Could you give us a minute?” he asks, his voice all throaty and hot and, God, Felicity might spontaneously combust just from the sound.

Eyebrows quirked in expressive judgment, Diggle regards them for a long moment, then nods. “Sure,” he agrees. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t make me turn the hose on you two.”

She stays perfectly still as Diggle retreats, tracking him to the stairs, and then listening until she hears the solid thump of the door closing, followed by the chirp of the alarm resetting. And _how_ did they miss all of those noises when Diggle _arrived_ , anyway? 

Felicity whimpers and drops her forehead to Oliver’s chest. Because she’s embarrassed that Diggle walked in on them, but she’s still pretty wound up, and Oliver’s hard length is still pressed right up against her core. Also the idea Diggle put in her head of Oliver doused in water, droplets running down that chest of his? Well, it’s... not the worst visual in the world. “Oh, my God,” she mumbles into his chest, shifting minutely against him, “I need a cold shower.”

Oliver laughs in her arms, and the moment is too big for her -- love and lust and humor and everything she never thought she’d have with him. She hugs him, arms and legs tight around his body, pressed against him as much as possible. His arms are strong and secure around her back. “I love you, Felicity,” he murmurs against her hair. 

Her arms tighten for just a moment longer, and then she leans back, letting her legs drop. “We should...” She shrugs, waving one hand in the vague direction of her computers. And then the odd look on his face registers. “What?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he assures her, but his face is saying something entirely different. And he’s staring at her chest, so she’s not feeling particularly reassured. “Just... your shirt.”

Felicity pulls the fabric from her body and sees -- sweat. Oliver’s sweat. In large, dark, damp splotches all along the front of her shirt. And she starts to laugh. “Oh, thank God, I thought you were making that sour face at my boobs.” Oliver chokes a little, and she grins up at him. It’s kind of amazing, getting these kinds of reactions from him. “I have some workout clothes with me,” she says, patting his abdomen -- because, let’s be real, he’s shirtless and standing five inches away from her and she’s _allowed_ to run her fingertips along the impressive ridges now.

“Felicity,” he grits out. She tears her gaze from his abs to find a pained expression on his face. “I’m sorry about your shirt,” he adds, “but you need to stop touching me.”

She purses her lips in an exaggerated thoughtful expression, tilts her head to the side. “What if I don’t want to?”

He captures her hands before she can blink, leaning forward to press a hard, desperate kiss to her lips. “Go change,” he orders, taking a large step back. He gives her a careless half-shrug and adjusts himself with a grimace. “I need to take a shower before Dig gets back down here.” He lets his gaze drift down her body. “A _cold_ shower.”

Felicity nods slowly. He’s right -- she knows he’s right. They don’t have time for what they both very _clearly_ want to do right now. God, she wishes they had _time_. But she slips off the table and walks carefully around him, leaning down to grab her bag and, yes, okay, smirking a little when she hears him groan. 

Smiling, she turns to him and walks backwards toward the small bathroom. “Patience,” she tells him with a smirk.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “I’m not a patient man.”

Felicity actually laughs. “Tell me about it,” she says, then turns and slips into the bathroom to change.

& & &

Felicity’s pretty proud of them both, that they follow up their frantic, almost-had-(probably-amazing)-sex-in-the-lair lapse in control with an actual, grown up, adult conversation in which they agree to keep their hands to themselves until they go on a couple of real, official dates.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. They agree that kissing is okay. And some, you know, associated behaviors. Because kissing involves touching and hugging and maybe occasionally some delightful friction. So that kind of... grinding is also acceptable.

But they’re not going to have sex before their first date. 

Probably.

Because Oliver is determined to “do this right” and “show you respect” and a whole lot of other stuff that -- while undeniably sweet -- adds up to an extra-chatty, innuendo-laden, sexually frustrated Felicity Smoak, and a growly, attempting-to-mask-his-lust-related-anger-with-niceness-but-failing-miserably Oliver Queen spending a lot of time in close proximity. And surrounded by a few other people, who are positively gleeful at this turn of events. 

It’s... Well, they’ve made a bad decision.

But they are adults, and they soldier through, seemingly agreeing without discussing it out loud that any touching will break their tenuous sexual truce. 

They make it the two days until their (second) first date, and Felicity awards her house 50 points for sticktuitiveness, right before she walks into the vast, empty expanse of Verdant in late afternoon. They’re taking the night off, so she’s just stopping by for a bit to check in, to make extra sure nothing crazy is going on that could interrupt them.

Because Oliver is picking her up at 7, and she’s wearing a particularly cute, short, flirty maroon dress and black lace lingerie. She has _no plans_ to be interrupted; she has plans for other things.

Things intimately involving Oliver’s naked body.

Which is why she’s singing “ _Drunk in Love_ ” softly to herself as she heads for the basement door. She would be totally fine waking up on her kitchen floor, assuming that was the result of mind-blowing sex with Oliver first. Oh, the mental images.

And then Oliver is there, actually there, emerging from the back hallway, his eyes dark and dangerous as he approaches. “Hey,” he says.

She stops, three feet from him, her eyes skimming along his jeans-clad thighs, taking in the familiar high-fashion lumberjack flannel plaid shirt. She knows -- she _knows_ \-- she didn’t actually say out loud that she would like to grain on _that_ wood. She couldn’t possibly have said that out loud (though, to be fair, she’s had that exact same reassuring thought a million times in her life even when she _has_ said the horribly embarrassing thing out loud. So.) He’s smirking at her and -- oh! -- he’s flush against her suddenly, and then scooping her up, arms banded around her waist. 

Their mouths meet in desperation, all insistent tongues and bruising lips. This thing between them is electric; she smolders wherever he touches her. 

Felicity’s eyes are closed and she has no idea where Oliver is leading her, but then his hands are on her ass and he leans down, lifting her until she wraps her legs around him. Damn, he’s strong. And she’s getting ideas in her head about later.

Or, really, ideas about _now_ , because he’s already hard and she’s already wet, and they’re going on their date in a couple hours, and what is the difference of a couple hours anyway? Sure, it’ll be desperate sex in a nightclub, but it’s not like she got all boozy and snuck off to a dark corner with some random guy. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, either! Felicity is all for female sexual empowerment. In particular, in this moment, _her own_.) 

So fine -- they’ll have sex in Verdant, even though it’s... late afternoon and... well, it’s actually kind of _weirdly_ bright in here and, okay, so maybe a quickie up against a pillar isn’t the best idea?

But then Oliver nips at her collarbone and her thighs clench tight around him, and against-a-wall-in-an-empty-club sounds _fucking fantastic_ as long as he’s inside her in the next five minutes.

Oliver grumbles his frustration when he reaches the bar, because it’s way too tall for what they both clearly have in mind. 

“There,” she says into his mouth, and Oliver follows the trembling hand she managed to remove from his shoulder to direct him towards the plush lounge chairs off to the side. In, yes, a dark corner, but whatever.

Oliver’s hands are on her ass, and his tongue is in her mouth, and she can’t possibly be expected to think clearly and rationally under these circumstances. All that matters is that she wants him, and then he’s sitting on the chair and she’s draped in his lap. She wriggles closer and they’re kissing again, desperate, moaning, moving against each other. She drags her fingernails along his chest, pushes his shirt up under his armpits, but he won’t take his hands off of her ass long enough to remove it. His palms are hot on her skin, under her skirt, under her panties, and he’s urging her closer and rocking up against her and if he just gives her like 10 more seconds of this pressure, it might be enough for--

“Ugh, are you _kidding_ me right now?” Roy shouts from somewhere alarmingly close. “God, I need eye-bleach or, I dunno -- can I get my memories removed by hypnosis or something?”

“Fuck,” Oliver curses against her neck, his fingers keeping his firm grip on her ass as she freezes in his lap.

“Oh, my God,” Felicity says. “This isn’t happening.”

“Again,” Oliver mutters, his breath hitting her skin in sharp, hot bursts.

“This is a _bar_ ,” Roy continues. “People _work_ here.”

“Shit!” Felicity says, her palms landing on Oliver’s shoulders and leaning away from him. “Thea!” she adds.

Oliver makes a disgruntled face. “Please don’t say my sister’s name when you’re--”

“Dry-humping in a bar?” Roy offers.

“Hey,” Oliver snaps, leaning sideways and fixing his protege with a very scary, coitus-interruptus version of angry face. “Watch yourself.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Roy snarks back. “But Thea will be here any minute, and I’m pretty sure Diggle’s on his way, so--”

“Not another word,” Felicity interrupts, climbing awkwardly out of Oliver’s lap. 

Oliver, who is evil, trails his fingers down the backs of her thighs as she moves. 

Roy must be feeling foolhardy, because he says, “Just gross,” as he heads for the backroom. 

Before Oliver can jump up and take off after him, Felicity leans over, carefully ensuring that they’re not touching anywhere except for the brief, slightly messy kiss she gives him. “I’m going to check a couple searches.”

Oliver nods grimly. “Go on down,” he says. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

When Felicity bites her lip to try to keep from smiling, Oliver groans. She can’t hold in the smile then, and takes two quick steps back. “Just a couple more hours, big guy.”

He glowers at her, but she can see the amusement and the heat underneath his bluster. “Dinner,” he says, and she stops halfway to the door to look back at him in confusion. Because, yeah, dinner’s the plan. But he’s smirking, and there’s no way that _smug_ should be such a good look on him, but it totally is. Especially when he lowers his voice a little and adds, “We’ll have dinner, and then you’re my dessert.”

Felicity is woman enough to admit that she stumbles a little when she manages to remind herself to walk away from him. 

Because _damn_.

& & &

Their date is postponed.

Which -- Felicity isn’t _bitter_ , exactly, because it’s hard to prioritize her (almost) sex life over the several dozen people held hostage in some kind of factory by an unhinged former worker. The situation is unstable, and Captain Lance called personally to ask for their assistance, so _of course_ their date is postponed. 

It’s fine.

Completely fine.

Even though she was really looking forward to dinner. And the inevitable conclusion of their night. _Dessert_. Just remembering the way he said that makes her hot. Oliver seems just as conflicted when he emerges in his green leather, giving her a hangdog look as he hesitates beside his bow.

Diggle pointedly ignores the weird dynamics as he checks the clip in his sidearm, then pulls on his grey leather jacket. Roy sits in the corner in his full leather regalia, bow leaning casually against his knee, and _snickers_. The twerp. 

Felicity silently promises them both payback as she crosses to Oliver. She offers him an earpiece and then wraps her hands around his biceps for balance so she can lean up and give him a quick kiss. “Go save some people,” she whispers against his lips. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?” he murmurs. He kisses her a couple more times, and, well, Roy and Dig can just hold their horses.

“Promise,” she answers, leaning into his solid, reassuring bulk for a quick hug.

And if his hand slips a little too far south when he returns her embrace with his free arm, well, who can blame them, really?

She’s still buzzing with arousal when he leaves with Roy and Diggle, but she’s an adult. She is totally able to control herself. She’s is in control of her libido. Hell, control is her middle name! 

It’s not, actually, and now she’s thought about it so much that the word “control” sounds fake inside her head, and also, she’s thinking about a little light restraint, which is _totally_ inappropriate because -- mission.

Right.

Felicity shakes her head, as if that could possibly remove the image of a more interesting use for Oliver’s abandoned collection of really expensive (and soft) silk ties. She takes a quick side trip over to the little kitchenette, refilling her water bottle and taking a long, calming swig. And then splashing cold water on her wrists like some Victorian fussbucket. His effect on her is really just not fair. He’s not even _here_ making smoldering bedroom eyes at her.

Okay. Mission. She can put the mission first. 

And she does. Even if the factory that this disgruntled jerk stormed is old, and the schematics available online are... _not_ accurate. The hostage-taker’s former company apparently really _does_ suck, because the security system is shit, and the security cameras aren’t even operational, so Felicity is reduced to providing, like, _cheerleading support_ (“Try the second door on the left -- there’s gotta be an exit somewhere!”) instead of actual information.

That really pisses her off. 

Never more so than when Oliver arrives back at the foundry very, very late and limping badly.

She rushes to the stairs as he makes his way down, one arm slung around Roy’s shoulders, Diggle following them silently. “Oliver, what--?”

“That fucking building,” he grits out, leaning a little extra hard on Roy for the last few stairs. “There was a false wall.”

Felicity frowns. Because she’s not quite making a connection between a false wall to hide, like, contraband, and whatever’s wrong with his leg. “A false wall?” she repeats blankly. “What--?”

It’s Roy who interrupts this time. “He tried to rappel out of there, but the false wall didn’t hold.” He rolls his eyes as Oliver shrugs away from him, hobbling the last few steps to the storage cases.

And Felicity gets it. “Oh, no -- you fell?” She’s beside Oliver, trying to ignore the pissiness he’s radiating as he puts his bow down with a little extra force, then his quiver. 

“I didn’t _fall_ ,” he corrects. “The wall gave out.”

Felicity bites her lip. Because she’s pretty sure he won’t appreciate her thoughts on _that_ bit of face-saving equivocation. She hears Roy’s snort, but turns back to her very cranky vigilante boyfriend. “Okay,” she says, trying for neutral but probably not quite making it all the way there. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Oliver places the fingertips of both hands on the table before him, ducking his head for a moment. He inhales, exhales, and then turns to meet her gaze more calmly. “I just tweaked my ankle,” he says, holding her gaze in that intense, _this is important and I need you to believe me_ kind of way. “It’s fine.”

He’s lying. “It’s not fine,” she argues, trying to convince him to sling an arm around her shoulders so she can help him to the med table. “You’re injured.”

Stubbornly, he half-hobbles, half-hops the couple of feet to the med table and hoists himself up. “I just need to ice it and wrap it for a couple days,” he declares. 

Felicity crosses her arms. “First you need to take your pants off.” Behind her, Roy snickers, and she flips him off without turning. “So that Dig can wrap it,” she adds.

The ghost of a smile flits across Oliver’s face, but then he’s grimacing again and shrugging out of the hood. Felicity takes it from him and carefully places it on the aluminum mannequin, taking her time to allow him to struggle out of his pants. Because she doesn’t think either of them can handle her attempts to _help_ him out of his pants at this point.

Diggle declares Oliver’s ankle badly sprained and wraps it carefully, then stands there, arms crossed, expression hard, until Oliver grumpily agrees to take painkillers.

When he passes out on the little twin bed in the foundry a half hour later, well, that’s just the cherry on the sexually frustrated sundae. Which is a terrible metaphor, in light of what Oliver promised her for dessert. 

But the lines of frustration and tension in his face are smoothed away by sleep, and she can’t begrudge him healing sleep. So she pulls the blanket higher, tucks it around his body, and goes home alone.

And has very explicit dreams about peeling green leather pants off of those crazy muscular thighs. 

& & &

Barry calls the next morning requesting Oliver and Felicity’s help to locate a particularly stubborn metahuman while Caitlin is at some sort of conference in Sweden. 

Oliver reacts about as badly as Felicity expects. 

First, because he’s injured, and nothing makes Oliver Queen madder than having to sit out a fight due to something as _human_ and _out of his control_ as an injury. Well, except maybe the second thing makes him madder -- the part where Felicity and Roy decide to go to Central City instead, leaving a very pissy, injured, and sexually frustrated vigilante in the care of one unimpressed former bodyguard and current badass daddy.

She... really shouldn’t call Diggle that, though. It just sounds weird.

Oliver is strongly in favor of Felicity staying in Starling, but he has trouble coming up with an argument more persuasive than “because I want you nearby,” so Felicity kisses him goodbye -- more than once. Because it turns out that his argument, when voiced in his low, husky voice, is actually dangerously persuasive. To her _and_ her libido. 

So, yeah. They end up making out against the wall until he forgets and puts weight on his bad ankle and hisses in pain.

Then she really does kiss him goodbye. Gently. And then just one more time, before she heads up the stairs to join Roy, still shaking a little bit from the impossible way Oliver makes her feel.

She’s basically living in a state of heightened sexual awareness these days. Or maybe heightened sexual frustration? _Something_ sexual, because the thought of Oliver’s mouth on her, of his hands slipping her clothes off -- it’s a constant, horny train of thought, humming along in the background of her every waking moment. She can’t get through a conversation without taking a little unscheduled break to think about how his skin tastes.

It’s ridiculous.

And it turns out that being in a separate city doesn’t help. At all.

The first three days that Felicity and Roy are in Central City, she and Oliver mostly communicate via text. He’s brusque, but isn’t that the nature of text messaging? Especially for someone like Oliver, who is _not_ prone to sprinkling emojis into his texts.

The very idea of Oliver Queen trying to figure out how to use an emoji gives Felicity a really stubborn case of the giggles the first night in her hotel room. Which is at least something to pass the time. 

Text messages from Diggle are a bit more enlightening.

Like, _You need to get back here before I kill your boy._

Or, _He bought a train ticket to Central City. I confiscated it. You’re welcome._

Or, _His ankle is mostly better, but I may have to tranq dart him to keep him off the streets._

Or, _I’m done. If he shows up, best of luck._

But Oliver doesn’t come to Central City, for which Felicity thanks her lucky stars. Because somehow a dinner conversation with Roy and Barry and Cisco leads to Felicity dropping an unintentional reference to kissing Barry.

That kiss no one but Barry and Felicity knew about, until she opened her big, fat mouth. Barry looks nonplussed, Cisco keeps glancing back and forth between the two of them, and Roy leans back in his seat, laughing uproariously. 

Felicity finishes her drink in three long swallows.

When Roy stops laughing, he asks, “Does Oliver know?”

“No,” Felicity answers, defensively.

“Why?” Barry turns wide, panicked eyes on her. “Would he be mad?”

“Um...” Felicity hedges. 

“They’re together,” Roy cheerfully tells Barry. “So he’ll probably kill you.”

“Shit,” Barry answers.

“Yeah.” Cisco nods slowly in agreement. “ _Shit_.”

“Okay, first?” Felicity says, “that was a while ago, and Oliver and I weren’t even... _whatever_ then. And second, it’s none of his business. And if he did find out, he wouldn’t _kill_ Barry. He’s not a freaking caveman.”

Roy wrinkles his nose. “He kind of is.” Roy hitches his thumb at her and directs his next comment to Barry and Cisco. “The two of them are gross.”

“We are not!” Felicity protests, her voice high and a little too close to a shriek for her tastes. But she can feel the conversation spiraling out of her control.

“Honeymoon stage,” Roy shoots back, eyebrows raised in skepticism. “You’re all over each constantly.” He gives the other two men a look of distaste. “Just sex all the time, those two.”

“Not true! We haven’t even--” Felicity’s jaw clicks shut and she presses a hand to her face, feeling the heat of a blush in her cheeks. Why? Why does she even open her mouth?

“Oh, my God,” Roy says, looking positively giddy with this new information. “Are you _kidding_ me? Oliver isn’t getting--”

“Do _not_ finish that question,” Felicity snaps. “We’ve been _busy_. And... _injured_. And actually this is none of your business!”

“Kind of my business,” Roy mutters, “when I have to see Oliver’s hands on your--”

“Roy!” Definitely a shriek that time, but at least it gets him to shut up. Felicity carefully stands from the table, fixing each of the _boys_ a warning look in turn. “This conversation is over. It will not continue when I leave -- which I’m doing _right now_ \-- and if I’m feeling charitable when I wake up tomorrow, maybe I _won’t_ get each of your cars repossessed or otherwise make your life hell, digitally.” She leans a little closer, eyebrows raised. “Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Barry nods. Emphatically. Possibly a little super-speedily.

“Got it,” Cisco says, holding his hands out to the side, palms up.

Roy just rolls his eyes.

She points at him in emphasis, and then says, “You guys can buy my dinner,” before stalking off. It’s surprisingly satisfying.

Until she gets back to her empty hotel room and remembers that, no, she is very, _very_ unsatisfied these days.

& & &

Not long after her phone chirps its stupid alarm at her the next morning, it rings. Felicity groans and reaches for it, then brightens quite a bit when she sees Oliver’s smoldering contact picture looking back at her.

“Hey,” she answers, surprised to hear from him and also suddenly and thoroughly nervous.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

“Good,” she answers, her tone happy as she settles back into the pillow. Because he’s not panicky or intense, so he’s _not_ calling for an emergency. He’s just... calling. It’s sweet. “I got into the database last night and grabbed all the data. We’re working through it, but I think we’ll have hard intel for Barry by tonight.”

“Does that mean you’re coming home?” he asks, and her stomach does a little flip.

For two reasons -- the idea of going home _to Oliver_ , which may or may not have even been what he meant? But also the insinuation of just what they both want so desperately to happen once she’s home.

So. Desperately.

“God, I hope so,” she says, and if it’s low and throaty and full of implications, well, too bad. The fates have kept them from having sex for nearly two weeks! Or, if you look at things from a distance, for at least two years. 

Oliver groans, and she can _feel_ it, her body loosening and warming in reaction. “Yeah?” he asks, all husky sex appeal.

“I miss you,” she says, and she means for it to be teasing and suggestive, but it comes out sounding unintentionally bashful. She squeezes her eyes closed, pulls the covers up over her face, nervous again.

“I miss you, too, Felicity,” he answers in that earnest way of his that leaves her breathless. She stays quiet, listening to him breathe on the other end of the line. After a long moment, he adds, “And not just because I want you here in bed with me.” 

Less earnest, more suggestive this time, and she shivers, even in the warm cocoon of the hotel blankets. “Are you in bed right now?” 

“Are you?” he asks, and she understands the challenge. She understands where this conversation is going if she says yes. 

She’s been turned on for days and days, unable to get the satisfaction she wants from him, so of course she says, “Yes.” And then she giggles, a little bit from nerves, a little bit from the absurdity that after years of working in such close physical proximity, their first time getting each other off is going to be via telephone while hundreds of miles away from each other. “What are you wearing?” she asks, her voice dripping with exaggerated sexiness.

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Truthfully?”

“Oh, my God,” Felicity says, her laughter dying as she realizes-- “You’re totally naked right now, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” he answers, and she knows he’s grinning just from the tone of his voice. And suddenly she’s imagining him naked and grinning her bed, and she has to press her thighs together in reaction. “What about you?” he asks.

Felicity is wearing an oversized t-shirt that says “CAMBRIDGE SANTA RUN 5K 2007” and a really unsexy pair of blue cotton panties. “Um,” she says, “a red lace thong and a pushup bra?”

Oliver laughs outright. “Felicity.”

“What?” she asks, feeling defensive and insecure. “Isn’t this supposed to be all fantasy and wish fulfillment?”

“I don’t want fantasy,” he answers immediately, “I want you in your panda bear pajama pants. Or in my grey hoodie you stole from the foundry. I want _you_.”

“Oh, my God,” Felicity moans, overwhelmed. Because she knows that he wants her, but hearing him say things like that, things that confirm he’s after her _person_ not just her body -- it’s a lot. She wants to launch herself at him, she wants to wrap her arms around his ribcage and press herself as close as possible to that stupid body of his. She wants _him_. “Why aren’t you _here_?” she groans, “I need you to be _here_.”

“Felicity,” he answers, harsh and desperate all of a sudden. “I need you, too. _So_ much.”

Her breathing speeds up, she’s half-gasping into the phone, her legs shifting restlessly against the sheets, the fingernails of her free hand skimming along the skin of her abdomen. She feels a little extra thrill, because-- are they really going to do this? “Yeah? What do you want me to to do?”

Oliver’s voice is crazy-sexy when he answers. “I want you to _be_ here,” he says, “because I want my hands on your skin. I want to peel your clothes off so I can see you and touch you and taste you. I want to make you scream. Repeatedly.”

She’s so turned on, so blissed out on the sexy pictures he’s painting for her that it takes a moment for the loud knocking at her hotel room door to register. Then Roy raises his voice and calls her name. “Felicity? You in there? Let’s go!”

“No,” she whines, flinging an arm across her face. “He couldn’t have been five minutes late?”

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asks immediately, his voice mostly businesslike, but she can still hear the roughness around the edges. “Who’s late?”

“Unfortunately not Roy,” she answers. Because, seriously, she could’ve done a lot with ten more minutes. She’s always been really good at talking. But no, because-- “Roy’s banging on my door.” 

“ _Wŏ cái bùguăn ne_ ,” Oliver mutters roughly, in what Felicity assumes is Mandarin. She’s not sure what it says about her, but Oliver speaking guttural Russian or gritting out Mandarin phrases _really_ gets her going.

Though to be fair, nearly anything Oliver does really gets her going. She is, in fact, so far gone at the moment that her legs are shaking and she’s having trouble drawing reasonable amounts of air into her lungs. She really needs an orgasm.

But _Roy_ is ten feet and one not-at-all-soundproof door away. Dammit. “Oliver?” she asks, concerned. Because she’d like nothing more than to stay here and have phone sex with him, but, yeah. Roy. Who is just the latest in a really annoying list of things keeping her from having an Oliver-instigated orgasm.

Did she torture puppies in her last life?

Oliver sighs. “You should go take care of stuff there. So you can be here as soon as possible,” he adds, and she can hear how tightly he’s holding onto his control.

“Okay,” she answers. “Hang on.” She covers the phone for a moment and yells, “All right, Roy, settle down. I’ll meet you in the lobby in 15 minutes.” He grumbles something she can’t understand, but stops knocking, so Felicity puts the phone back to her ear. “I’ll call you later?”

“Yeah, okay,” Oliver answers. 

There’s a strange pause where Felicity doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say. Because they love each other, and they’re together, presumably, but it’s all very, very new and very, very different. Normally, she’d be signing off with a brisk, unimportant note about seeing him later at the lair. But this isn’t normal.

Before she can figure out what to say, Oliver says, softly, “Come home soon, Felicity,” and hangs up.

Somewhat reluctantly, she drops the phone back to the bedside table and pushes the blankets aside to face the day.

& & &

She should’ve stayed in bed.

The hotel bed. Not this stupid hospital bed -- what is it called? A gurney? She blinks slowly, her eyes a little unfocused already.

“Felicity,” Roy prompts, tapping the phone in her hand.

She looks down with surprise. “Oh.” She thought she was still waiting for someone to hand her the phone. “Painkillers work fast,” she says, frowning when she hears the way she’s slurring her sibilants.

“It’s the muscle relaxants,” Roy says. She frowns at him. “That’s what’s making you loopy,” he adds. Then he raises his eyebrows and gives the phone in her hand a pointed look. “Call him,” Roy orders.

Felicity has absolutely no interest in making this particular phone call. 

Well, she wants to talk to Oliver. Hearing his voice might actually make her feel better. Because she’s in pain, but maybe not really anymore, because of the drugs? The pain feels less... _immediate_ than it did a little while ago. Her whole body feels kind of... loose and drowsy. She’s _definitely_ high as a kite, and really wants Cisco and Roy and especially Barry to stop staring at her with big, sad (and, in Roy’s case, amused) eyes.

So she wants to talk to Oliver. She just doesn’t want to have to tell him she’ll be staying another day or two in Central City. She _definitely_ doesn’t want to explain the whiplash.

But Roy is threatening to text Oliver a picture of Felicity’s emergency room wristband if she doesn’t, and even with her brain chugging along sluggishly, she knows just how badly _that_ would go. So she glares and throws him and Barry and Cisco out of her... little curtained-off area that is _so not_ a room, which means everyone will be able to hear her conversation. Great. 

Gnawing on her lip, she selects Oliver’s number and hits send, letting her eyes drift shut as she waits for him to pick up. Everything feels remote and kind of fuzzy, except the distinct feel of slightly scratchy cotton sheets under her hand, which has oddly caught the majority of her focus. Other than rubbing her palm against the sheet in fascination, she’s just floating along.

“Hey,” he answers, and she can hear the smile in his voice. This is going to be so bad.

“Hey,” she replies, and she might as well have just blurted “I’m injured!” considering how slurred and wonky her voice sounds.

Stupid painkillers. Muscle relaxants. Whatever.

“Felicity,” he asks, all worry and repressed anger at whoever or whatever hurt her, “what’s wrong?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she tries. Because the important thing is he doesn’t take it out on Barry. It’s not really his fault.

Oliver makes a really disgruntled noise and repeats, “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t be mad at Barry,” she cautions, but that was _obviously_ the wrong thing to say, because Oliver grits her name out with a panicky rage that makes her wince. “Sorry. M’okay. Just -- painkillers make it hard to--”

“Felicity!”

“Whiplash,” she explains, falling a little too hard into the “sh” sound at the end of the word. It takes her a second to recover. “I jus’ need the painkillers and the muscle r’laxants for a couple days,” she adds, trying her best to pronounce everything crisply. She’s not real confident in her success rate.

“Where are you?” he asks, and she can hear the forced calmness in his tone. She wishes her brain wasn’t scrambled so she could actually explain everything to him. It’s a simple enough story, but everything is coming out of her mouth all scrambled and confusing.

“‘Mergency room. ‘Cause Caitlin’s out of town, ’member?”

“Is Roy with you?” Oliver asks.

“Yes. An’ Barry an’ Cisco.” Wow, _Cisco_ is hard to say. She never noticed that before. Or maybe she’s never been this high before? She wonders if _Felicity_ is hard to say in her state. “F’liss--” She stops, frowning. “Feliss’ty.” Better, but still slur-y.

“I’m coming to get you,” Oliver announces. “But first I need to talk to Roy.” His voice drops to that gruff register that he only gets when he’s really annoyed with one of his mentees. “And _Barry_.”

“Not his fault,” she protests. “He got me outta the way.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how did you get hurt?”

“Rapid desssel--” She wrinkles her nose. “Decel’ration.” 

“Barry got you out of the way using his speed and then stopped so quickly he _gave you whiplash_?” Oliver demands, half-yelling by the end of it.

“No!” she protests. But kind of-- “Yes. But jus’ ‘cause he had me pos _ishhh_ \-- poss-- He was holding me wrong, so--”

Roy is suddenly standing in front of her, eyes wide and mouth dropped open, and she swears she just blinks for one second and then he’s got her phone pressed to his ear and is talking to Oliver. When she looks past Roy’s shoulder, she sees Barry’s worried face peering around the privacy curtain. “S’okay, Barry!” she tells him cheerfully, “I said it was an accident.” Why are “ _S_ ”s so hard to say?

Roy winces and pulls the phone away from his ear, and Felicity can hear Oliver. He sounds angry. Roy holds up one finger in front of her, and Felicity tries to touch it with her index finger, but it’s really hard and she dissolves into giggles, slumping back on her bed and then adding a plaintive. “Ow.”

Whiplash sucks, she decides, sniffling a little because now she’s stuck here and Oliver’s far away and she was supposed to be home and in his bed tonight, but instead she _hurts_ and it sucks.

Someone takes her hand and she manages to open tear-filled eyes to see Barry looking down at her with a guilty hangdog look. “M’okay,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry, Felicity,” he says, brushing her hair out of her face. “Really.”

She nods, but -- ouch -- so she just gives him a tremulous smile. Or tries to. 

“Yeah, Oliver,” Roy says, as Felicity closes her eyes against the bright overhead lights, “I’ve got her.”

& & &

Except for the confrontation between Oliver and Barry, the next three days pass in a delightful haze, care of her heightened sensitivity to the painkiller-muscle relaxant cocktail she’s on.

Felicity isn’t entirely sure when Oliver arrives in Central City, but she knows he drove up to get her in Lyla’s SUV. He would’ve come for her regardless, but getting a chance to yell at Barry in person was definitely a motivating factor.

She’s pretty sure Oliver sends Roy home on the train, which is weird, since he’s driving her back anyway, but she doesn’t have the presence of mind to ask about it. Painkillers have always knocked her for a loop, and she used up most of her lucidity that day putting a stop to the Oliver versus Barry nonsense.

She spends the drive back in a haze of blurry scenery and a frozen limeade... _thingie_ he got for her along the way. Her neck is achey, still, but her meds are keeping her just far enough away from it that the bumps and sways of traveling don’t _really_ bother her.

Oliver apologizes anyway, each time she is so much as jostled. Eventually, she’s pretty sure she dozes off with the seat canted back to a forty-five degree angle, because she closes her eyes and when she opens them again, it’s dusk. Another blink, and they’re parked in front of her apartment.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Oliver says softly. “We’re home.”

“Yay,” she manages, and she tells her arm to fist pump, but her knuckles hit the door and she just mumbles something incoherent instead.

Oliver chuckles and leans over to press a kiss to her temple. “Stay put. I’ll come around and get you.”

“M’okay, Oliver,” she insists, reaching for the door handle even though her eyes would apparently prefer to stay mostly closed.

“Please,” he says, his palm landing on her thigh. “Humor me?”

The most frustrating part is that her brain is working at least marginally better than her ability to communicate. So she _knows_ Oliver is being an overbearing nincompoop. She tries to persuade him that she’s fine -- or will be fine in a couple days -- and that all she needs is to sleep. 

When he opens the passenger door, what she manages to say is, “Jus’ take me to bed.”

He does, and even high, even with whiplash, she wants him badly. She wants his warm hands on her skin, she wants his mouth on her, she wants _him_.

She’s so _tired_ of waiting.

When he guides her into her bedroom, his strong arm wrapped securely around her back, she decides the drugs are working well enough. He’s never been in her bedroom, and the sight does something to her. She drops down onto the mattress gracelessly, ignoring the flare of pain in her neck. Her hands reach for him automatically. 

Oliver steadies her, one hand on her shoulder, one gently cupping the back of her head. “Do you want to change?”

She dips her chin, ignoring the little sunburst of pain, and pulls her t-shirt up and over her head. Oliver’s body tenses as she sits before him in her bra and skirt. He stares directly into her eyes. “Where are your pajamas?”

Felicity grabs two fistfuls of his shirt. “Don’t need ‘em,” she says and flops onto her back, attempting to pull him on top of her. 

Except suddenly her neck _hurts like hell_ , because -- stupid, _stupid_ whiplash. 

Somehow, Oliver is gently moving her to lie properly, bring her legs up onto the bed, murmuring the whole time. She’s too focused on breathing through the pain to decipher what he’s saying.

He finds her PJs and sits on the bed beside her. “Can I?” he asks, his gaze dropping to her bra and skirt. 

“Okay,” she whispers, letting him ease her into a seated position, supporting her head to relieve the stress on her neck. Their gazes catch and hold when his fingers skim along her ribcage to her back, and she can’t help the shiver, or the way her nipples harden in response. He pauses with his hands on the clasp of her bra until she gives him a small smile. 

It’s exhilarating and embarrassing and erotic -- Oliver undressing her. Because she’s wanted this _for years_ , but this scenario? Where she’s injured and he’s just putting her to bed? This isn’t how she wanted him to strip her bra off of her. She wanted heat and fire and desperation -- she never expected such tenderness. 

He slides the bra straps down her arms and doesn’t try to hide the appreciation in his gaze as he takes her in. “You’re beautiful,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her sweetly.

Then he’s moving again, pulling the soft cotton shirt over her head, gently pulling her arms through the sleeves, then freeing her hair so it tumbles down her back. He’s so careful with her -- protecting her head and her neck as he shifts her back against the pillows. 

His fingers are at her waistband, fumbling for a catch, and she has that strange schism in her head again -- the disorienting differences between her fevered imagination of him desperately tugging her skirt free, and the reality of his careful hands skimming across her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

“Here,” she says, her hand touching his, bringing it to the side zipper. She’s suspended between the ache in her neck and the shaking arousal in her limbs as he slides the material down her legs. He’s gentle, but he also lets his fingertips glide down the length of her legs -- from her thighs, along the sides of her knees, and down her calves. She can’t help but squirm beneath his touch.

She can tell from the rough hitch in Oliver’s breathing that he’s affected, too. She wonders if he’s imagined undressing her. But he dutifully pulls on her comfy flannel PJs, letting his fingertips dance across her abdomen until she shivers. 

When he straightens, looking down at her with a soft smile, she reaches a hand in his direction. “Stay with me?”

Oliver swallows hard, but nods. “I’ll be right here,” he says, tilting his head towards the small chair paired with a vanity in the corner. 

“No,” she says, pushing the blankets back. “Here. Stay here.” She feels exposed, raw, and somehow can’t make herself breathe while she waits for his response.

His eyes are dark as he stares down at her, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. “Felicity...”

“Oliver.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, then nods. She watches with breathless interest as he strips off his shirt and pants, crawling into bed beside her in just black boxer briefs. 

Felicity has _never_ imagined this. Their sexual connection is so strong and so overwhelming sometimes that she can get lost in it. But this intimacy -- Oliver half-naked in her bed, _willingly_ there, and not for sex, but for comfort and companionship -- it’s what finally, _finally_ makes her believe that he plans to stay. That he’s all in with her. 

“Hey,” he says, rolling to her side and up onto his elbow, “what’s wrong?”

She smiles at him -- joyful and, yes, a little drugged out. Because she’s too loopy to explain exactly what she’s feeling, she keeps it simple so not even her addled brain can screw it up: “I’m happy.”

Oliver grins back at her, that soft, genuine smile, and his hand lands on her abdomen, skimming along her waist as he leans down to kiss her. “Me, too,” he whispers warmly against her lips. 

Looping one arm around his neck, she pulls him closer, deepens the kiss. It’s all going swimmingly -- he’s in her bed, mostly naked, and gorgeous, and enthusiastic, and half-hard against her thigh already -- when she tilts her head for a better angle and -- yeah. Whiplash.

Oliver breaks the kiss immediately, his hand coming up to cup her cheek and brushes his thumb across her skin. “Sleep, Felicity,” he says. “We’ve got plenty of time, and you need to heal.”

Felicity frowns up at him. “Stupid whiplash,” she grumbles.

Oliver looks rather smug as he presses a light, chaste kiss to her lips and then settles himself beside her, curled to face her with one ridiculous bicep draped across her ribcage. “Goodnight, Felicity.”

She’s not sure what’s worse -- her sexual frustration or her whiplash.

& & &

Felicity has been back from Central City for six days. 

Oliver has spent all five nights in her bed, curled up against her, without doing anything more than kissing her a little bit. It is incredibly sweet but also just plain _infuriating_. 

Because her neck feels a thousand times better -- she can move and roll it and stand straight with nothing more than an occasional twinge. She’s _healed_ , basically.

But Oliver is having none of it. 

He remains weirdly terrified of hurting her, and it’s really starting to piss her off. She’s woken up five mornings in a row with his arms around her, his erection pressed against her, and his _stubborn refusal_ to do a damn thing about it. She feels like she’s about the burst at the seams, she’s so wound up and frustrated.

“We have plenty of time,” he keeps telling her, but she’s certain he can’t possibly understand that if he doesn’t have sex with her -- or _at least_ get her off -- in the next 24 hours, she will spontaneously combust. Just... _kablam_.

And then, _Here lies Felicity Smoak, who died of sexual frustration_.

Oliver just rolls out of her bed, shirtless, not even a little embarrassed by the erection tenting his boxer briefs, and blithely showers in _her_ shower, leaving her turned on and unsatisfied. Then he pulls on the clothes he brought with him -- because he’s doing that now; all the logistics of a boyfriend sleepover without any of the sexy perks -- and makes coffee while she gets ready.

By the time she gets to the foundry that evening, she’s basically vibrating with sexual tension. She taps her pen against the desktop, her leg jiggles up and down, and she cannot make herself focus. But she tries, determined to have a grown-up conversation with Oliver about how she needs an orgasm immediately. One that involves him, but, hey, dealer’s choice on the method. Because she doesn’t care if it’s his hands or his cock or his mouth, she just needs _him_. 

But she is an adult, and she can certainly control herself well enough to--

The familiar clank of the salmon ladder breaks her train of thought and she glares across the room at him. “Are you _kidding_ me?” she shouts, and she’s standing with her hands on her hips as Oliver -- shirtless, beautiful, _sexual cat-nip_ Oliver -- hangs from the bar about halfway up, breathing hard and looking at her quizzically.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

But Diggle takes two steps towards Felicity and asks a little too pointedly for her tastes, “Do you two need a minute?”

“We need _at least_ an hour,” she grumbles before she really weighs the implications of her words. Her gaze is stuck on Oliver, and she can see the way he gulps even from twenty feet away.

Diggle has his hands up in surrender, and when she glances at him, his nose is wrinkled with distaste. “Look, you guys need to keep all of that out of here, okay?”

Felicity nods enthusiastically -- and without pain! -- and hooks a thumb in the direction of the stairs. “Good idea! Let’s get out of here, Oliver.”

He’s still hanging there, unmoving, and she crosses her arms beneath her breasts, taking a couple steps closer to the salmon ladder. He drops to the floor, landing in a deep crouch before straightening. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and strained.

“I’m all better, Oliver,” she answers. “I promise.”

He still looks torn, and he takes one step towards her when Roy arrives with Vietnamese food. The edge of Oliver’s mouth quirks and he says, “Dinner before dessert, right?” Felicity visibly _shivers_ in response, because she’s getting Oliver Queen for dessert. And finally, _finally_ , they might get this right. He gives her a full-blown smirk, then tilts his head toward the small bathroom. “I’ll go clean up.”

The four of them end up passing dishes around and eating at the various workstations. Except Felicity’s of course, because no food or drink are allowed near her computers.

Obviously.

The conversation is mostly driven by Roy and Diggle; Roy seems puzzled by Oliver and Felicity’s strange vibe, while Diggle is all exasperation. 

Felicity finishes eating first, since she doesn’t carb-load like the guys, and starts on her exercises. Physical therapy, really. Which the Central City doctor recommended and she then thoroughly researched until she found a series of neck strengthening exercises that make logical sense to her.

Carefully, she sits up straight in her chair and rolls her head forward, then around, and then back. She lets her head drop further back, just a few inches, enjoying the pull of her abdominal muscles when her back begins to arch. 

And suddenly Oliver’s phone clatters onto the metal work table, startling Felicity. She straightens, eyes wide, and turns to him, but he’s already up from his seat, half-eaten food tossed aside.

“That’s it,” Oliver announces, stalking towards her.

Numbly, she takes his hand when he holds it out for her. “What’s it?” she wonders. Because he should really finish his dinner -- he must have burned through a lot of calories with that workout.

But Oliver turns to Diggle and Roy. “We’re leaving.” 

Oh, Felicity thinks, brightening. _Dessert_. That’s it. Great. Awesome. Excellent.

Roy, on the other hand, clearly considers this an opportunity to tease them, because he smirks around a mouthful of pho and says, “Oh, yeah? Where ya going?”

“Netflix,” Felicity sputters. “Hulu. Lots of--”

“We,” Oliver interrupts, looking unbearably smug, “are going to go have sex.”

“Oliver!” she squawks, while Roy’s mouth drops open and Diggle sighs plaintively. 

“Didn’t I ask you to keep that out of here?” Diggle wonders. 

Oliver leans down to grab her bag and push it into her hands, even as he keeps talking. “We’re going to Felicity’s and we are not going to be disturbed for at least the next twelve hours. Am I clear?”

Felicity can feel the burn of a really, really impressive blush on her cheeks, but she’s honestly not that mad about Oliver’s little speech. It’s kind of adorable? And maybe a little hot.

“Please,” Diggle says, “just _go_. We don’t need a detailed agenda.”

Felicity might actually kind of like a detailed agenda? Maybe? Just so she can mentally prepare for... _twelve hours_ of Oliver Queen. She realizes belatedly that she’s fanning herself and drops her hand back to her bag, clutching it closer.

“I’m not taking my phone,” Oliver announces, nodding to where it lies, abandoned, next to half-finished arrows. “Neither is Felicity, and--”

“Oh, no,” she interrupts. “I am _not_ leaving my phone here.” Because that’s a non-starter. No way. What if they need something? What if there’s a sex injury? Because that can be kind of serious, and -- well, Oliver is in ridiculous shape, so if _anyone_ was going to get injured during really, really good sex (because, God, after this kind of build up, it had _better_ be really, really good sex), it would totally be her.

“Felicity--”

Her eyes are wide and she stiffens. “Did I say any of that out loud?” she whispers.

Oliver tilts his head, confused. “About your phone?”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes. “But I am not leaving my phone here. What if we need to order takeout?” She thinks this is an excellent point, especially since Oliver didn’t finish his dinner, but Diggle groans and buries his face in his hands.

Oliver studiously ignores Roy’s obnoxiously loud laughter, keeping his heated gaze on her as he starts to pull her towards the stairwell. “Fine. Felicity’s phone will be turned _off_ for the foreseeable future. Don’t call us.”

She’s grinning at him, embarrassed but turned on and also really, _really_ amused.

From behind her, Roy pipes up, “But what if--?”

“Do not disturb us unless this building is actually, literally on fire,” Oliver orders, pausing at the foot of the stairs to allow her to go first.

Felicity takes two stairs and then stops, turning. “Oh, but that search for Yevgeny--”

“No,” Oliver interrupts. “I don’t give a shit about Yevgeny Kafelnikov.”

She crosses her arms, “First of all, that’s not true. Secondly, I spent a lot of time and energy setting up those searches, and if there are results--”

Oliver cuts her off with a kiss, which is starting to get irritating. Except it’s a _really good_ kiss. Still she’s going to have to get him back with this method. Whenever he gets broody or starts ordering people around, she’ll just grab him and kiss him _like this_ and, she moans into his mouth because, yes, okay, this method is actually _great_ \--

“Just _go_!” Roy shouts. 

Oliver pulls back, breathing hard, and leans his forehead against hers. “Can we please go have sex?”

Felicity grins at him. “Well, since you’re actually _begging_ for it...”

He leans in, letting his breath ghost over her ear until she shivers. “I promise you’ll be the one begging for it in about twenty minutes.”

She’s bombarded by a truly amazing series of mental images, and thank God for her excellent imagination. It’s only Oliver’s smug chuckle and his hands on her waist that get her moving again. 

& & &

The nerves hit as soon as Felicity opens her apartment door and steps inside. Because she’s about to have sex with Oliver. Oliver, who is close enough behind her that she can feel his body heat. 

“Um,” she says, stopping abruptly and turning to him, her hands tangling together into a nervous knot. “So...”

Because what are you supposed to say when you’re basically on an impromptu sex date?

Maybe, _Where would you like it?_

Or, _Clothes off now, or should we decide on a sex location before all the nakedness?_

Possibly, _Would you prefer wine first, or just straight to the sex?_

She might be starting to panic. Just a little bit.

Oliver’s hands skim down her upper arms, snapping her out of her little sex-date anxiety spiral. “Felicity,” he says, his voice low and suggestive and, damn, she’s getting wet just listening to him say her name like that, “can I see your phone?”

She blinks. That was... not what she expected. Shoving her against the wall, kissing her senseless, just straight up ripping her panties off? Sure. But he... wants to make a pre-sex phone call? “Uh, sure,” she answers slowly as she digs it out of her purse.

Oliver nods his thanks, then ostentatiously powers her phone down, giving her a heated look as he waits for it to finish. It’s really working for her, this single-minded determination thing he’s got going on. Because he’s an intense man, and having that intensity focused on her? Crazy hot.

Of course, he’s also being a little dramatic -- he could’ve just turned the ringer off. She purses her lips in bemusement, but she still has to press her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking.

Oliver just lifts an eyebrow at her and turns the phone over, popping the casing open. Her attention is caught on his hands, on his fingers as he eases the battery out for good measure. Her breathing is already embarrassingly fast because she’s imagining all the _other_ things he can do with his hands. 

He places the phone and battery down on the little table next to her keys, then turns to the door, setting the deadbolt with a decisive thunk, and then engaging the chain. 

Felicity’s stomach flips, but she manages to roll her eyes at him. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms, stepping right into her personal space. “I want my dessert with no interruptions.”

She _tries_ to say something witty and flirty, but she’s pretty sure the sound she makes is a lot closer to, “guuuuh.” 

He is entirely too smug as he backs her against the wall. He’s not even touching her, his palms flat against the wall on either side of her ribcage, and she’s already vibrating with lust. He leans down, his breath hot against her ear. “As much as I want to fuck you right now against this wall,” he says, huffing a laugh when she lets out what can only be described as a squeak, “we are going to take this to the bedroom.” He presses a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses to her throat. “In deference to your injury.”

“I’m not injured,” she protests, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy. “I’m all healed,” she says, a little stronger, and she leans up to kiss him in demonstration. It is immediately hotter and wetter and more demanding than any kiss they’ve shared so far. And she sinks into it, her arms snaking around his ribs, her fingers digging into his back to press them as closely together as she can. “See?” she pants, letting her head drop back when he starts to suck on the corner of her jaw.

His big hands are clutching fistfuls of her dress, and she knows she’s not the only one on the skinny edge of control. Reluctantly, she slides her palms to his chest and pushes the slightest bit. Oliver reacts immediately, pulling back and studying her, “Are you okay?”

She grins, “More than okay,” she assures him. Because her nerves are mostly gone, replaced by an over-sized helping of lust. She feels great, actually. And impatient.

Grabbing his right hand in hers, Felicity tugs him towards her bedroom. She shivers when she feels his fingers drift through her hair, then along the back of her dress. He pulls the zipper open slowly. 

When Felicity crosses the threshold into her bedroom, she turns back to him, shrugging her shoulders until the dress begins to fall down her body. She eases it off of her arms, and lets it pool onto the floor. When she steps out of it, she’s left in just her black and silver Mary Janes and a pair of red lace panties.

Oliver’s eyes go wide as he stares at her breasts. She grins, feeling _mostly_ confident under the weight of his attention. “Didn’t feel like wearing a bra today.” She adds a little shrug. Just because.

And then his palms are hot against her back and his tongue is on her nipple, and she has to steady herself with her hands on his shoulders. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs into her flesh, then licks a hot stripe across her ribs and along the curve of her other breast. 

She realizes that he is still fully dressed and she is... really _not_ , and starts to tug on his shirt. “Off,” she orders, then gives a little gasp when she feels his teeth scraping along her skin. “Oh, that’s good,” she says.

Oliver straightens, yanking his shirt off with one hand, leaving him in just his jeans and those brown ankle boots he loves so much. “Tell me exactly what you want,” he orders, his eyes impossibly dark as he urges her back toward the bed. “Tell me how you want me.”

She shudders at his request, at the rapid-fire set of possibilities her imagination serves up. Her fingers scrape down his chest. “I want you naked,” she says, sticking to the basics because right now she doesn’t feel real picky about the details. “I want you inside of me.”

It’s Oliver’s turn to answer with an unintelligible grunt-like sound. 

The back of Felicity’s knees hit the bed and she drops down to sit on the edge of the mattress. She parts her thighs, urging him forward. He’s fumbling with the fly of his jeans, but stills completely when she leans closer, her hands locked on his waist and her lips and tongue tracing patterns against the ridges of his abdomen. 

They both moan at the sensation.

There are so many areas of Oliver’s body that she would happily spend hours kissing and licking and learning. His shoulders, for instance. Or the small of his back. But his six pack -- just damn. “Ridiculous,” she mutters into his skin. He’s clenching beneath her touch, and she lets her tongue drag so, so slowly down each rock hard ridge until her chin bumps his hands, still curled around the waistband of his jeans. “Do you know what you do to me when you’re on the salmon ladder?”

She tilts her head, tracing the well-defined muscle to the side with her tongue. When she glances up, Oliver is staring down at her, mouth hanging open, breath coming hard and fast. He’s gripping the material of his jeans so hard she’s concerned he might rip the fabric.

It’s hands down the sexiest thing she’s ever seen in her entire life. And she’s seen this man half-naked on a salmon ladder.

But he’s here and he’s transfixed by _her_ \-- by her hands and her mouth and her tongue on his body -- and it’s a rush. She squirms a little, her thighs moving restlessly, impatiently.

“Your body is beautiful,” she tells him, leaning up to place a gentle, reverent kiss to his newest scar. The damaged flesh is pink and raised and too smooth to the touch. Oliver makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob, but doesn’t answer. Or even blink. 

It’s a heavy moment, sacred, maybe, and she slides her hands around to his back, laying her cheek against his torso for a quick, fierce hug. Before he can respond, she straightens back up.

Gently, Felicity runs her fingers along his hands, urging him to let go. When he does, his fingers are trembling. She alternates placing soft kisses against his abdomen with easing his jeans open, and then pushing them down his thighs. He seems a little overwhelmed, and she wants to make this better for him, make this perfect for him. 

She looks up and meets his gaze, then gives him a little smirk. “How about you tell me exactly what _you_ want?”

That breaks through whatever combination of emotions had him stymied, because suddenly Oliver is moving again, dropping to his knees and leaning in to press their bodies together while he kisses her. His tongue is doing amazing things -- she's pretty sure she's never been kissed senseless before, but the phrase is starting to make sense to her. Then he eases back just enough to nip her bottom lip, and her fingers scrabble against his shoulder blades for... _something_ to hold onto. He makes her body thrum, her mind dizzy with lust.

“You,” he says, his hands on her ass to pull her flush against his erection. “I want you, Felicity.”

Her back arches, and there’s such perfect pressure against her clit. She's suddenly and bitterly disappointed that they’re both still in their underwear, because he can't just slide home. “Oliver,” she manages, hooking a leg around his hips to press herself even closer.

“I want you,” he repeats, his hands leaving heated trails along her back, her thigh, her ribs. “I want to taste you. I want you to come around my fingers. I want to be inside you. God, please, I want to be inside of you, Felicity.”

Yes, she wants all of that. Plus her mouth and her hands all over him. She wants him in every possible way. Now. Repeatedly.

She’d tell him that if she were capable of speech. Instead, she yanks his face back to hers, kissing him, sucking his tongue into her mouth, nipping at his lips. The world tilts, and it takes her a minute to realize he’s lifted her up. He places her further back on the mattress and settles on top of her. Her thighs come up around his hips without conscious thought, and they’re moaning, grinding against each other.

“Now, Oliver,” she demands, letting her hands trail down his back and into his boxer-briefs to grab his ass. His firm, round ass, clenching beneath her appreciative palms each time he rocks against her. Good lord.

He pulls back from her a little and she grumbles in protest, but then he has his mouth on her breast and his fingers sneaking under the red lace of her panties, and she’s panting. “Yes, okay, that’s--” She’s practically shaking beneath him, her body reacting fiercely. 

He moans around her nipple, “You’re so wet.”

“That’s _really_ good,” she tells him. Because she is a fan of positive reinforcement, especially when a blisteringly hot man has his hands on her-- “Oh, that's-- Perfect, perfect, like _that_!”

He huffs a laugh, leaning up on his elbow to kiss her again. “Keep talking, Felicity.” His fingers don’t even pause, working her clit in quick, precise circles.

She grins at him. “Not a--Oh! Not a problem.” He beams down at her, then sits up, his hand still diligently learning her body, searching for what makes her gasp and moan and babble. “Yes, that’s really-- You’re-- What are you _doing_ to me?” she whines when he slips two fingers inside.

He looks up from her breast. “Good?” he asks.

As if he can’t tell. As if the way her body is moving uncontrollably to the rhythm he's established isn’t proof enough. “You have good -- _Oh!_ \-- hands, Oliver.” It’s a massive understatement, but her higher vocabulary skills have abandoned her, so it’ll have to do. Because she’s about ten seconds away from a really intense orgasm, and he’s--

He’s _stopping_?

Felicity blinks up at him. “What--?” She bites off her protest when she realizes he’s stripping her underwear off. Because, yes! Excellent idea! Gold star for nakedness.

She half-sits up, intending to unbuckle her shoes, but Oliver runs his hands along her ankles. “Leave them?” he asks.

Is it possible to come just from the way he’s looking at her?

She manages a shaky laugh. “Okay, but if you get a heel-related sex injury, I’m letting _you_ explain it to--” 

Oliver lunges forward, tackling her to the mattress and kissing her before she can say Diggle’s name. Which is probably for the best. When Oliver eases back, he’s chuckling. “I love that you’re still talking.”

“You didn’t really think I’d be quiet in bed?” she asks, squeezing him with her thighs as he settles into the cradle of her hips. She crosses her ankles carefully over his lower back, just letting the sides of her heels press into his skin. It still makes him shiver, and she files that away for later.

Oliver lowers himself onto his forearms, the bare skin of his chest flush against her breasts. Which feels amazing, especially when she arches into it without actually meaning to. He presses chaste kisses against her lips. “I hoped you wouldn’t be quiet,” he says, staring down at her with love and lust and amusement in his expression. He hasn’t looked at her with such open affection since their ill-fated date, and the sight makes her wrap her arms tight around him as he adds, “I love the sound of your voice.”

Joy bubbles up inside of her chest, because he _hoped_ she would talk in bed. Because he’s thought about this and hoped for this and -- that’s it. The absolute end of her patience. She needs him inside. She needs that connection. She needs _more_. Immediately.

Oliver’s eyes widen comically when she reaches between them, shoving at the waistband of his boxer-briefs and wrapping a hand around his cock. “Felicity,” he groans.

“I’m done waiting,” she tells him, wriggling closer, moaning when he jerks his hips into her grip. “Please, could you--?”

“Condom?” he manages.

When she lets go of him to twist beneath him and reach for the bedside table, he groans in protest, then pleasure as his cock settles directly against her wet heat. Felicity stills, condom in one hand, and closes her eyes as he rocks against her. 

Then she’s moving, pushing him up and off. He goes willingly, settling onto his back. Felicity takes a moment to push his shoes and his clothes the rest of the way off, then reaches for him, cradling him in her palm as she strokes him. She lets her free hand trace the deep muscle ridges that angle down from his hip bones, and it’s his turn to writhe helplessly. 

When she leans down to press a kiss to the head of his cock, Oliver half-sits up -- which does _amazing_ things to his abs -- and reaches for her. “Felicity,” he says, and she thinks he’s trying to sound gruff, but he just sounds desperate.

She can certainly relate to that. So she rolls the condom on and presses him back flat with a hand on each shoulder. Then she straddles his hips, inching forward a bit before reaching for him. 

“Yeah?” she asks, breathless, but still needing _something_ , some kind of acknowledgment of the enormity of the moment..

Oliver’s jaw is tense with anticipation, but he holds her gaze and jerks a nod. “Yeah,” he answers softly.

Breathing in short gasps, she watches his face as she starts to take him in. His eyes slide closed, his mouth pressed into a tight line. His hands are gripping her hipbones with fierce pressure -- not urging her to move, more like holding on for dear life. It takes a few moments for her to sink all the way down, for her body to adjust to the size of him. 

And then she grins. Giddily. “Yes!” she half-shouts. “Finally!” She gives a fist pump for good measure. 

When realizes how ridiculous that was, given the context, she claps a hand over her mouth and starts to giggle. Oliver is smiling up at her, and when he starts to chuckle, she collapses forward onto his chest. His strong arms wrap around her back and squeeze. And for a long, silly moment, they just hold each other and _laugh_. At the absurdity of the last couple weeks. At their unnecessary nervousness. And at just how _happy_ they are to finally, finally be here.

She didn’t know it could be like this with them. She didn’t know it could be intense and overwhelming, but also fun and affectionate and just... It’s more than she ever thought they’d have. Her love for him wells up in her chest, and she presses a dozen kisses to his chest.

Felicity doesn’t even realize when she starts to move, little circles to bump up her arousal. “Ohhh,” she tells him, using his shoulders to push herself back upright, reveling in the perfect pressure of him deep inside her, “this is good.”

“Yeah?” He sounds breathless but determined to outlast her. His chest is flushed, and he’s pumping his hips up into her, matching her rhythm.

“Yeah.” She nods enthusiastically, her nails scratching lightly down his abs. “You feel -- yeah,” she sighs, her eyes closing as she rocks a little harder. 

His fingers take unpredictable journeys across her skin -- rolling her nipples, cupping her ass, skimming up her spine, circling her ankles. Somehow the disconnected sequence of touches keeps winding her higher and higher. “You’re amazing,” he pants. They’ve both been turned on for two weeks, and she can tell he’s close from the desperate way his hips snap up into her. Hell, she’s close, too. 

“I can -- ohhhhh.” She leans forward a little, using his shoulders for leverage as she starts to move harder, faster, and the angle is better. Unexpectedly a lot better. “I’m close,” she manages, her pulse pounding in her ears. 

“Thank God,” he mutters, pressing his palm low, low on her abdomen and it’s -- wow, it’s _good_ pressure. He feels deeper, suddenly, and then his thumb is dragging slow circles along her clit and she’s really _really_ close.

“Oliver, that’s-- Yes,” she says, speeding up, her movements losing whatever grace they had. Because he is hitting her just right and whatever that thing with his hand is? It’s like a video game cheat code because-- “I’m -- God -- Oliver, I’m--!” 

And she falls over the edge, her orgasm crashing into her with a vengeance. She is still riding him, writhing helplessly, her mouth hanging open as she attempts to suck in great gulps of air. 

Oliver sits up, plastering his chest to hers, and kisses her as she comes down. When she comes back to herself, he’s kissing her somewhat desperately, his hips still giving little jerks into her.

“Wow,” Felicity says against his lips, loving the little grunts he makes when he feels her aftershocks. She's breathless and kind of boneless and she _really_ wants Oliver to join her in this ridiculous bliss. She pulls herself together enough to kiss him with intent, then orders, “Now tell me how you want me.”

Felicity has no idea how he gets his legs under him, but he’s moving, lifting them together so he doesn’t have to pull out, and then turning. And he cradles her head when he lays her back on the mattress, because even desperate to come, he’s still worried about her. 

“This okay?” he asks, even as his hips give shallow little thrusts. His weight is on his elbows, his forearms tucked beneath her shoulders, and his torso moving against hers. She's surrounded by him, her own personal fortress of hard muscle and protective instincts. She never wants to move.

“This is _awesome_.” When she sucks on his neck, she can taste the salty tang of sweat. She grins up at him, scraping her nails down his back and he thrusts deeper with a groan. “You want to feel the heels, don’t you?” she asks, dragging one of her Mary Janes not-so-gently up the back of his thigh.

“Yes,” he groans, pulling his hips back and slamming back home. His pupils are blown wide and dark, his mouth is open, his breath coming in short pants -- it's like looking at heaven. “Please,” he adds.

“I didn’t know you had a heel fetish,” she comments, arching up into him.

“Didn’t used to,” he mutters, shifting his weight to his left and sliding his right hand down her body to her ass, which he squeezes firmly. She gasps at the feel. “I have lost entire portions of my day staring at your ass,” he says, his voice harsh and breathless as he picks up the pace. “The way you stand when you’ve got heels on -- your legs, your breasts -- Felicity...” He shakes his head, his hot palm moving down the back of her thigh and urging her to open wider.

Felicity pulls her legs higher on his hips and he sinks deeper. She presses her heels into the small of his back and runs her fingers up his ribcage, overwhelmed by his admissions. “Come for me, Oliver,” she tells him.

He doesn’t need to be told twice -- whatever shred of control he had is gone. He’s moving desperately inside of her, his thrusts hard and raw and frantic. 

“That’s it, babe,” she breathes into his ear. “You feel so good inside me.” 

Three more powerful thrusts and he’s straining against her, her name tumbling from his lips as he comes. The feel of it doesn’t quite bring her off again, but it certainly bumps her arousal up another few notches.

Chest heaving, he collapses onto her, a sweaty wall of muscle. She runs her palms down his back slowly, soothing him until he recovers enough to hoist himself back onto his elbows. 

He looks softer, calmer than she’s ever seen him, and she blinks back the sting of tears. He deserves peace and joy and love. He deserves to have this expression on his face as often as she can put it there.

“Hi,” he says with a dopey grin. “Did I squish you?”

“In the best way,” she says, tightening her arms around his ribs so he doesn’t get any dumb ideas about moving any time soon. 

He leans in and kisses her, one of those good, soft, deep kisses, and she can’t help but lift her hips into him in response, seeking friction or pressure or _something_. 

“Really?” he asks, quirking an amused eyebrow. “Already?”

Felicity beams up at him. “I was promised an uninterrupted twelve hours,” she points out. Cheekily.

“Mmmm,” he answers, “and I was promised dessert.” 

The sound she makes in response to his implication is nothing compared to the loud, strangled, desperate nonsense that spills out of her when he brings her off with his mouth. Or when he does that amazing thing with his fingers. Or the second time he comes inside of her, her leg pulled up to his shoulder and their hands intertwined above her head.

Sometime after round four, Felicity makes Oliver go retrieve phone from the living room, since he made such a show of leaving it there. Because she was right, of course -- they do need to order takeout. They need energy, Felicity explains when he balks, because she is not done with him yet.

“I’ll never be done with you,” Oliver answers in that solemn way of his. 

Despite the amazing orgasm she _just_ had, she can’t help but tackle him after that.

Thirty minutes and one enthusiastic blow job later, Oliver answers her front door in just his jeans and tips the stunned speechless pizza delivery girl a fifty. When he closes the door and turns back, Felicity is standing there, smirking at him, wearing his abandoned shirt. He makes a choking noise, tosses the pizza onto her kitchen counter, and drags her straight to the couch.

Pizza’s better reheated anyway.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Mandarin translation:
> 
>  _wŏ cái bùguăn ne_ : I don't give a damn.
> 
> NOTE: [Quick Oliver POV drabble from about 80% of the way through this story](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/125220873102/b-long-time-coming-only-the-greatest).


End file.
